The Good

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Amaya kills me. Nerdiest girl in school and doesn’t care that she doesn’t fit in with her African American “clan”. Plaid jumper, white turtleneck—to cover up old scars—and penny loafers. Listens to smooth jazz, plays classical piano—self-taught—and can’t name a single rap artist. She thought 50 Cent was change from a dollar. That makes her basically an outcast with her own kind. Kind of ironic, don’t you think?

If she only knew how lucky she is to have a “kind”.

Photo Credit: © Teresa Levite

Amaya Jamison

David Albright

David’s one of the few people in the school I’d consider getting close to, even if we’re on opposite sides of the Lincoln caste system. Seems like the kind of guy that goes his own way, makes his own rules. 

And he rides a Harley Davidson.


David casts a sideways glance in my direction. He catches me watching him and winks before diverting his eyes.

In a different time—if I were different—I’d test the waters. But I’m a . . .

You know.

And David is human—fully human.

So what would be the point?

Photo Credit: © Charles Bennett